Northern Lights
by Svala
Summary: Not so lonely on a cold night -- Finland/Sweden introspective -- One-Shot written for the nordic5 Christmas Exchange @ LJ


**Title:** Northern Lights  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** None, really. Just kissing.  
**Notes:** Betaed by Lilichan LJ  
**Words:** 1,171

* * *

Christmas was coming. Finland frowned to himself, checking off the lists in his head in preparation for the holiday. It was _such_ a busy time of year, and as the world became more commercialized, more interconnected, there were more and more people to deliver gifts to. It had started, slowly but surely, to drain him. He remembered the old days, stretching out in a spare moment and laying his head on an old wooden table, the edges and form smoothed by age, rubbed at the corners by men, women, children. Worn thin by Sweden when he came to clean and polish, by his own fingers tracing the grooves of old wood-scars, by Sealand pretending the table was the world and that the world was flat.

For old time's sake, he lit a candle and placed an old hourglass on the table; his old tool for counting down the days, weeks, months, before things could happen. Out of the corner of his eye, the northern lights danced in the nighttime sky outside his window. Hanatamago had curled into a small, white, fluffy ball at his feet and was sleeping soundly.

If it weren't for the northern lights, he thought, he wouldn't have survived the long winters. Staring up at the display with blank eyes, he waited and watched. These were the days when the sun never seemed to rise, when the sun turned its face away from him and refused to shine. The air was cold, the long nights made longer by waiting for nothing. Each minute passed like an hour as the sand in the hourglass dropped in a steady stream, grain by grain he would watch them shift. Each was a fraction of a second; a pinch was a minute, a handful an hour, and the hours slipped away so quickly...

He turned away, the rattle of loose wood and tile clacking in the wind jerking him out of his thoughts enough to notice the shift and settle of snow as footsteps headed towards his house in the night time. He glanced at the hourglass, then at the digital numbers of his Nokia handphone. It was almost midnight; he must have fallen asleep in between the memories of dancing light and darkness. He sighed, listening closely to the muffled gusts, tempered with Hanatamago's drowsy bark. The darkness was such that he could barely see the whiteness of the snow closest to his doorway - the bare bones of reflection. He could not think of who would be out there in this infernal weather. Estonia with news? or perhaps Sweden? The latter floated into his mind as a faint memory. It had been a while since he'd seen his erstwhile husband. Busy times of year made it difficult to get moments off for personal visits, and he tended to spend what time he could with Estonia anyway, taking advantage of his best friend's very reasonably priced booze. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Sweden, or that the booze was preferable, but the simple truth was that Estonia asked to see him sometimes and Sweden didn' was loathe to talk to him first; accustomed to quiet suggestion, bleak silent messages in the barn. It wasn't that he was scared. It was more that he took it for granted.

So it was only a mild surprise when the oddly emotionless and bespectacled face appeared at his window. Snow-flurries had built up on Sweden's hand-knit hat. Finland noticed vaguely that it was one he'd made a few years ago as a tardy Christmas present, and was amused to see that he was still using it. Smiling crookedly, he groggily lifted himself off the worn-down wooden chair and unlatched the door. Sweden took two hesitant steps inside, brushing himself off and making sure not to leave too much snow to melt into dirty puddles on the wooden floor, before enveloping Finland in a rather uncalled-for hug.

"... Sweden, what are you...! "

"...'m here to say h'llo."

Breaking away, he closed the door behind him carefully, moving past the table and chairs to sit himself down next to the dying fire in the next room. Picking up the stoker from the side of the fireplace, he prodded at the embers tentatively with the sharp end in an effort to coax it back to life. Finland stood by the door, watching him and brushing off the melting snowflakes transferred to his clothes by Sweden's jacket.

He beckoned Finland to sit by him by the rug as the fire flared up a little, sputtering fitfully in little bursts. Finland sighed inwardly, joining him tentatively, carefully leaning his head against Sweden's shoulder. The cold room warmed up in increments as the fire slowly made its way back to a healthy simmer, and they sat in silence, awkward but not uncomfortable. Hana-tamago padded softly into the room behind them and curled up at Sweden's side, where a large hand would briefly rest to stroke soft white fur. Finland closed his eyes again, the midnight hour creeping through his consciousness.

Sweden was stoic, stubborn, caring but incomprehensible. Finland couldn't come to terms with it, but at times, this sort of thing was necessary. Quiet companionship reminded him of odd stability in uncertain times, like the nightly lights reflecting themselves through inky skies, back when they had just left Denmark and the Kalmar Union. The fear he felt would pray on him as the hours slipped by in silence, but at the same time, the support having someone nearby gave him strength enough to grow. Grow up he did, and though that support wasn't always there, and sometimes he couldn't forgive Sweden for it, he realized in time that rare things were all the more beautiful when they finally showed up; as it was, perhaps uselessly, on a cold winter night when nothing but memories would do.

Moments like these were northern lights against the darkness, a transient, shifting comfort; cold and calming. After a long day, he felt almost rested against Sweden's shoulder, and he the comfort, though embarrassing, was something he wasn't so averse to indulging in now and again.

As he drifted off into half-sleep, the old dreams playing as the reflection of the aurora's rays in his mind, he was vaguely aware of warm lips against his. Somewhere within waking and sleeping, he moved into that comfort, blushing deeply, arms winding around Sweden's strong shoulders. He wondered vaguely if he had had anything to drink in the meantime. It was of little notice to him, then, that he had not opened the bottle of koskenkorva viina lying lonely on the table.

It was just that sort of day.


End file.
